


the longest night

by jayyxx



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Could be seen as House/Chase but it isn't, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nobody's Fault - 8x11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 15:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5831104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jayyxx/pseuds/jayyxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He imagines Chase, in a cold hospital bed, with no idea what’s going on. He squeezes Wilson a little tighter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the longest night

The day had been long, and the night had been cold. 

_“You made it, bud.” Taub smiled, hands his his lab coat pockets. The four doctors, including House, are standing around Chase’s hospital bed. Chase smiles up at him, then slightly moves his head to redirect the smile to the female doctors on the other side of his bed._

_“You're in the PACU. Been in surgery. The anesthesia's just wearing off.” Adams says, hand patting Chase’s arm. His expression turns from slightly smiley to worried. He looks down at House, standing at the end of his bed, looming like a storm cloud. “Did I have an epidural?” He asks the room, but his eyes find House’s at the end._

_“Uh… No.” Taub answers, worry lines burrowing between his brows._

_“‘Cause… I can't feel my legs.” Chase tells them, and watches as the three doctors look up at each other across the bed, then all three look down at House, perfectly in sync._

_House feels his heart beat faster, just a few beats. He turns and grabs a needle from a desk off to the side of the room. He removes it from its packaging, and promptly pokes chase in the foot with it._

_There’s no reaction. At all._

_“What did you do.” Chase barks at House, like he paralyzed Chase on purpose._

_“Hey, hey.” Adams interjects, pushing Chase’s head to the pillow with a comforting hand on his forehead. She strokes the short blonde hairs away from his forehead, ignoring the sweat that’s sticking it down. “We’ll figure it out. Don’t panic, okay?”_

_Panicking non the less, Chase nods. He focuses on her hand, and closes his eyes. Taub makes eye contact with House, and he’d never seen him scared like that…ever, and Taub’s stomach turns. Taub pats Chase’s arm, before turning and directing House out of the room. House follows, like a puppy, and for some reason, Taub feels like throwing up._

 

He sits on the ground bedside his bike for a minute. Counting his breathes like Wilson taught him a long time ago. Inhale, two, three, four, hold. Exhale, two, three, four, hold. His head hurts. His hands hurt from gripping his cane too tight. His leg hurts. 

you awake? h

I am now. W

can i have to spare bed tonight? h

Sure. W 

You okay? W

House? W

He can feel his phone buzzing in his coat pocket, a heavy weight, a horrible reminder. 

Wilson is at the door as soon as he knocks. Pin striped pants and a loose grey shirt. His eyes are red and his hair is tousled. House wants to melt into him. Wants to fall against him a have him carry the weight, just for a minute. But — he thinks —a bed could do the same thing. Wilson exhales sharply. Shoulders rising and falling with the movement. 

“Was driving.” House explains, holding up his phone, lit with three unread texts. “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” Wilson tells him, ignoring the urge to mock House about saying sorry. He just smiles and ushers him inside. House toes off his shoes, drops his backpack and jacket to the floor, and starts to march off. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Wilson half shouts down the hallway at House’s retreating form. 

“Not really. You still got my toothbrush?”

And that’s how he ended his night. The sky was cold and harsh with clouds when he looked out the window. They covered the constellations with their blackness, blocking out any moon or starlight. He remembers, a time ago, when he slept here every night. He fell asleep to the sound of Wilson talking, or snoring, or pattering around the halls. Usually, it was Wilson, on the couch, in House’s apartment, but for those few months, it was House being the one invading. Not that Wilson was ever invading, but House always felt like he was when he lived here. He invaded, listened to Wilson’s prayers and ate dinner at Wilson’s dining table, where he always felt like it should have been Amber sitting here instead of him. 

This room is where he had his first sleep outside of Mayfield, Vicodin free, for the first time since the surgery. He remembers telling Wilson about how happy he was. How he felt like he was moving up. Wilson had rubbed a circle into House’s back as he passed him on the way to the coffee pot. Then, suddenly, he’d never felt so at home. 

This bed doesn’t feel like home anymore. He’s cold when he climbs out of bed to reach his pill bottle. It burns as it slides down his throat. His fingers shake as he places it back down on the dresser, and his legs are unsteady as he falls back into the bed. What did you do!? Chase had yelled, and it feels like he’s still yelling. House puts his face in his pillow and breathes. It’s not his fault, at least he thinks it wasn’t… He can’t really remember if it was that patient, or himself holding the knife, but it doesn’t matter, it feels like it was him. House breathes into the cotton of the pillow, and suddenly he can’t breathe, and he’s holding a knife to Chase’s side, and it doesn’t matter. Nothing really matters. 

He sits up slowly. Not knowing where to go. He thinks the window opens wide enough he could slip through, but he doesn’t think tonight is the time for that. But hell, anything would be better then facing Chase again. He twirls his fingers in his sheets. He knows he’s breathing, he knows his heart is beating. He knows his heart is pumping the needed blood through the right ventricle, and through the left before it leaves. Maybe it goes to his arm, or maybe his liver or his lungs. Maybe it runs to his toes. He doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter anyways. 

He doesn’t know he’s doing it until he's pushing Wilson’s door open. He turns in his sheets, laying on the far left side, to look at House. He doesn’t say anything stupid like he usually does. Non of the “You okay?” shit, because he clearly isn’t. Wilson just sits up, and pats the cold spot next to him on the bed. It takes him a second, or twelve to actually make it to the bed, where he sits and pulls his good leg to his chest, wrapping his arms around it, a clear sign of distress. He can see Wilson wants to — is dying to — hold his hand or hug him, tell him everything is okay. But he knows House doesn’t wanna hear it. He just looks over, quietly says - “stay in here tonight.” Like he’s talking to an injured animal. House hates that feeling, but he nods, looking straight forward, pulling the side of his mouth into a thoughtful pout. 

“Okay.” Wilson says, and his voice is nice. A soft sound compared to the voices in his head. He watches Wilson slide down until he’s laying on his side, facing House. House feels obligated to do the same, and as he does, he watches the way his lanky legs try to fit under the short blue sheet. He gives up on the sheet, and lays on his side. Wilson leans up, and helps him fit both the blue sheet and the soft duvet over him, yanking on it until he’s covered in warmth.

House feels better. Watching Wilson’s eyelashes against his cheeks, his hand tucked under his head and the other in the space between them. Stubble on his cheeks, his hair splayed out on the pillow. House reaches over and puts his hand on his cheek, rubbing the corse hairs poking through there. Wilson doesn’t really open his eyes, he keeps his eyes downward, more on House’s chest as he reaches up to hold his hand there, which might have been better, because House thinks he would have ran if he had to see those puppy dog eyes stare up at him. They move together, House’s arm reaching out behind his head. Wilson’s body moving towards his, tucking himself under House’s chin. House’s arms grabbing and holding and squeezing him, until he feels like he can get some kind of control back. 

Wilson rests his head on House’s chest, his hand too, laying it over his sternum and feeling him breathe. 

House squeezes his eyes closed, arms shaking and breath catching as he holds on.  
 Wilson burrows a little deeper into House’s chest. 

House turns his face into the hairs on Wilson’s head. He shutters a little. 

Wilson hushes him. House almost cries. 

He imagines Chase, in a cold hospital bed, with no idea what’s going on. He squeezes Wilson a little tighter. 

The night goes on, and they lay. It goes on, and the clouds clear from the sky, showing an equally dark sky, but bright stars, and a cool coloured moon, and they lay together. 

It doesn’t matter anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> haha im so in love with these two. idc that the fandom's dead I'm obsessed.  
> im @ghostycas on tumblr if u wanna talk about these two kiddos  
> also; I realize that since this is season 8, Wilson should be living in his condo instead of ambers apartment, don't really know why I wrote it like that but.... oops!


End file.
